Gone Grey
by Idle Leaves
Summary: It should feel different, Remus thinks. Response to a challenge involving Remus, Sirius, and "nothing left to give".


**Disclaimers:** I make absolutely no claims to these characters; they are the sole property of their original creator/author. I make no profit from this work of fiction, and no disrespect is intended.  
**Rating:** PG for references to sex.  
**Cast:** Remus Lupin, Sirius Black.  
**Notes:** This is what happens when I respond to a RL/SB challenge involving "nothing left to give" with Bush's "Glycerine" on repeat. Thanks to Laura for beta-reading, and Teacake for both beta-reading and smacking me in the head when necessary.  
**Canon/Timeline:** Takes place during the first part of _Order of the Phoenix_.  
**Summary:** It should feel different.

-----------------  
GONE GREY  
-----------------  
  
It should feel different, Remus thinks, when he closes the front door of No. 12 Grimmauld Place and sets his suitcase down. There should be a swell, a slight quickening of his heart; he'd expected it when the house appeared in front of him, and again when he climbed the stone steps. It didn't come then, and it doesn't come now. A smile does, though. It's genuine, if muted, and mirrored in Sirius' eyes.  
  
Sirius takes his suitcase and leads him through the hall, then up the stairs and into a spacious, if poorly-lit, bedroom. Remus allows a passing thought that he'd not spend much time in it, at least not by himself; it might be a suspicion, but it might be hope. He unpacks his few possessions at Sirius' request. That simple act seems meant to give the arrangement some kind of permanence, moreso than his aborted stay at Remus' months ago. It had afforded them little time together between everything else that had to be done; the promise of longetivity that they have now might be, in some small way, what Sirius needs.  
  
Rather than in the living room, or the drawing room with its Doxy-infested curtains, they find themselves in the kitchen, hands wrapped around mugs of tea. Sirius' short laugh seems out-of-place, but it's not the gloominess of the surroundings hanging over Remus' head. They're still at the table when night comes and the lamps are lit, having fallen into a sort of silence that's almost comfortable between them, but less so all around them.  
  
Sirius' face is shadowed in the low light, and it's he who rises first, snuffing out the lamps on the way out. He pauses at the top of the stairs for half a second, looking back over his shoulder, then turns down the hall toward his own room.  
  
Remus follows.  
  
It's been a long day and an even longer week; Remus needs no prompting to remove his shoes and lay his clothing neatly over the back of a chair. Sirius falls ungracefully into bed after locking the door. It's nothing more than skin-against-skin, sleepy warmth by Remus' side and breath on his neck; then his eyes are blinking open in the morning light. Sirius is awake--and likely has been for quite some time--but he waits until Remus moves to sit up before sliding away.  
  
It seems an endless task, the prospect of making the house properly habitable again; it won't be finished in a day. On the way from one room to another, Sirius glowers at the curtains covering a portrait in the hall, and mentions that he's not enamoured with the idea of dealing with it at the moment. Remus remembers why.  
  
Sirius, with Remus' wand, busies himself with lifting old, once-useful concealment charms. Remus listens patiently to his grumbling, growing more light-hearted as the day wears on. He goes about his own tasks, finding reasons to keep himself near Sirius, and finds that daylight through the smudged windows makes the house seem less sombre.  
  
When they've done all they can for the day, Remus makes tea in the kitchen, books spread out around him and an empty chair across the table. Sirius wanders in from time to time with a comment or a question. He touches Remus' shoulder--but never for long enough--or rests against the counter for a few minutes, then resumes his restless wandering. There's already a fire lit in the study when Sirius proposes a change of location; Remus has to admit that the sofa is better than the straight-backed wooden chairs, even if it means he has to stack his books on the floor.  
  
Sirius moves beside him, tilting his head so he can see the words. Remus' brow furrows in the barest trace of a scowl when Sirius' hand settles on his wrist to prevent him from turning the page. When the hand moves up his arm and Sirius leans against him, Remus adds the book in his lap to the rest on the floor. He's just tired enough to want to rest his eyes, and his thoughts take paths they haven't needed in a long, long while; the sofa in Sirius' flat was no less comfortable, but the fireplace was across the room.  
  
There's a hand on his face and his head is being turned without warning. Sirius has never been one to preface his actions with words. Remus doesn't pull away until he needs to take a breath, and then, he suggests they move upstairs. They're not teenagers, and don't stumble over one another as they make their way down the hall.  
  
It should feel different, Remus thinks, when the bed creaks softly under their weight. He's hardly in the proper state of mind to be analytical, but knows there's something not-quite-expected, maybe even not-quite-right, tugging at the corners of his mind. It's not enough to distract him completely, or for long; afterward, Remus curls onto his side, Sirius still stretched out on his back.  
  
He wakes not refreshed, but contemplative. Sirius breathes softly, evenly, behind him, and Remus concludes he's still sleeping without looking to make sure. Early-morning light creeps in through the cracks in the blinds, and it starts to make sense.  
  
There's no awkwardness in lying there, no pull to slip out the door, but a quiet realisation has worked its way forward. It was less need than familiarity, when they touched, and less familiarity than nostalgia; a memory of what was, but isn't. It's grown comfortable, but beyond that, he'd almost say it's grown cold. It's a different sort of love than he remembers--more tired, more weary, but the attachment is still too strong to break.  
  
Remus rolls over, and finds that Sirius isn't sleeping at all. He's watching him; an odd little half-smile drifts over his face, something Remus isn't used to seeing. This won't be one of those times that Sirius wants to have it spelled out for him bluntly, just for the satisfaction of hearing it; it's the sort of thing that's better understood but left unsaid.  
  
Remus sits up, reminding himself and Sirius that there's quite a bit they promised to get done. There's no real rush to get to work, but he gets dressed, aware of Sirius doing the same beside him. Unlocking and opening the door, he makes his way downstairs.  
  
Sirius follows.  
  
-- finis  
[2004.08.10] 


End file.
